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Stone-cold truth: Lifecasting your head is the ultimate special effect

FLORIDA TODAY's Christina LaFortune had a 3-D mold made out of her head -- or lifecasting -- at AEO Studios in Orlando. To make the mold, she had to be completely covered with wet goo for 20 minutes. Video posted Oct. 10, 2017, by Craig Bailey.

Not everyone can withstand globs of goo covering the face -- for 20 minutes.

Changing your appearance can be empowering. It can be as simple as choosing a dress and heels instead of shorts and flip-flops, wearing vampy red lipstick, or trying a different hairstyle.

But what if you want something even more radical? That's when you turn to prosthetics and special effects.

You've seen it in movies and on television, in sci-fi and fantasy worlds populated with zombies and elves. It's not all computer-generated imagery. Those are real, human actors transformed by special effects makeup, and it all starts with a lifecast.

What's a lifecast? It's a permanent, durable, 3-D copy of an actor's body part — such as their head — that can be used for sculpting customized makeup. Think of a witch's bumpy nose, or an alien's sleek brow. When it's created on a lifecast of the actor's face, the finished prosthetic makeup will precisely fit the person's features, allowing movement and expression.

Lifecasting is the duplication of a person's features from a mold made from their living body. You've probably seen those kits popular with new parents for casting babies' tiny hands or feet, or even art pieces cast from a model's body. Those are made from a lifecast.

As a stage actor, I'm used to changing my appearance with wigs and costumes, but I'm ready to take it to the next level. On my quest for character makeup for Halloween and cosplay, I turned to Alan Ostrander, president and creative director of AEO Studios.

Looking around his Orlando studio, I knew I’d come to the right place. Prosthetic body parts litter the worktable, bright green Shrek heads lurk in a corner. In the shadow of a tall shelf I see mysterious items labeled werewolf upper, half-skull, and beast brow.

The process is a little daunting. I have to sit perfectly still for about 25 minutes while he makes an impression of my head using prosthetic-grade alginate, which is like a wet jelly applied over my head, face, neck and shoulders — with my nostrils left open so that I can breathe.

Then come the plaster bandages over the wet jelly to make the lifecast very rigid.

Don't try this at home

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Christina covers her eyes as Alan Ostrander and Ray Asiala of AEO Studios clean up after removing the lifecast mold from her head.(Photo: Craig Bailey/FLORIDA TODAY)

As they tuck my hair under a bald cap, Ostrander's assistants, Ray Asiala and Ashley Green, tell me I need to keep my neck straight so my cast will have a clean chin and jawline. If I ever feel like I can't breathe, I should just blow out through my nose and give them a hand signal.

Most important, they caution me, I should not try this at home.

One thing has been worrying me. “What happens if I have to sneeze?”

Green smiles, “Don’t think about it!”

The edges of the bald cap are sealed to my skin. All of my hair is completely covered. I feel like I’m starting to lose my identity. I'm glad I can't see myself in a mirror, because I might lose my nerve. I’m acutely conscious of my colleague, FLORIDA TODAY visual journalist Craig Bailey, filming this experience.

I'm also aware that this lifecast is going to preserve my features in stone permanently. Of course I want it to be flattering. I ask Ostrander for the best strategy.

“So, I’m guessing, just like a neutral expression?”

“Exactly,” he replies. “Just natural, just like you’re taking a nap.”

I’ve never actually seen myself taking a nap. I suspect I don’t look like Sleeping Beauty. For all I know, I might look like a drooling, slack-jawed gargoyle. Is that really how I want to be remembered for all eternity?

0 MINUTES IN

The artists start slathering cool, gooey alginate on me. One focuses on the back of my head, another concentrates on my face. I can feel it oozing over my head. They work fast to gently press the slippery goop into the contours of my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth, my chin. They cover the tip of my nose, but leave my nostrils open.

I have a flash of anxiety. Uh-oh, what face did we decide on? Slack-jawed gargoyle? Beautiful dreamer? Since my mouth is covered, I can no longer speak, so I try to relax into what I hope is a neutral expression. Remembering my chin, I hold my neck straight.

My ears are covered, so sounds are muffled, although I can still hear Ostrander patiently talking me through the process.

I can hear Bailey's camera shutter clicking. I’m aware that I must look like a bedraggled swamp monster. Oh, boy. Why am I doing this again?

With about 15 seconds before the alginate sets, Ostrander and Green work swiftly to make sure it is applied thick enough, especially around the tip of my nose. They also reinforce the back of my head where they’ll eventually cut me out of the mold.

5 MINUTES IN

I hear Ostrander's voice: “OK, so the first step is complete.”

I give them a thumbs up. This is going faster than I expected. The alginate has congealed around my head; my face feels frozen in place. I can even relax a tiny bit without messing up the mold.

The next step is to apply plaster bandages, which will give the alginate structural support. What little translucent light I could sense before, now goes completely dark as wet plaster strips are placed over my eyes.

“This is where we get to mummify you!” Ostrander laughs.

I wonder vaguely how the Creature from the Black Lagoon would look enshrouded in bandages. Is mummy better than swamp thing? Either way, this will be good for Halloween, right?

8 MINUTES IN

Ostrander tells me, “You are going to start feeling a little bit of weight. It is a little heavy. We’ll work as quick as we can.”

He’s not kidding. I feel like I’m being buried. Sounds are muted, except for my own breathing, which now sounds deafening. My heartbeat is suddenly loud in my ears. Wow, can they hear that pounding on the outside? I imagine this is like being in a sensory deprivation chamber.

I can feel their hands smoothing the plaster around my neck and shoulders, working out all the errant air bubbles. Ostrander places a tiny piece of chalky-smelling plaster over the end of my nose, reminding me that I haven’t had to sneeze … yet. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Oh no, now I’m thinking about it.

15 MINUTES IN

Ostrander says, “Now we can say all kinds of things about her and she can’t talk back!” I hear laughter.

They turn a hair dryer on me — mercifully without heat — to speed up the drying of the plaster. It’s weirdly jarring to get a blast of air through my nose hole. Man, those are words I never thought I would write.

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Ray Asiala uses a dryer and Alan Ostrander of AEO Studios marks the seams of a lifecast of Florida Today reporter Christina LaFortune so the cast can be removed.(Photo: Craig Bailey/FLORIDA TODAY)

18 MINUTES IN

I hear scratching. Someone is writing on the plaster with a pencil. The sound resonates inside my mummy wrappings; I can hear it even over the racket of the hair dryer. I think I hear muffled laughter. Are they drawing graffiti on my head? I want to smile in spite of myself, but I can’t move my face.

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Alan Ostrander of AEO Studios marks the front of a lifecast of Florida Today reporter Christina LaFortune as Ray Asiala uses a dryer on the back portion. (Photo: Craig Bailey/FLORIDA TODAY)

20 MINUTES IN

We are done. The artists lever the back half of the plaster layer off my head, clamshell-style, and immediately I feel lighter. The front half comes off next. I can sort of sense daylight through my closed eyes, although I’m still encased in alginate.

I lean forward while Ostrander uses scissors to cut a zigzag opening up the back of the alginate. He’s careful not to cut into the bald cap. It feels like this step is taking forever, but that’s probably because of my own impatience.

I squinch my face up, and then stretch it out into a yawn. I can feel the alginate release from my skin. The more I move my face, the more the mask pops away. Ostrander loosens up the back, while I pull my head out.

I gasp. Light! Air! Reality floods my senses.

“Aaaah!” I cry. “This is what it feels like to be born!”

The molding phase of my lifecast is done. Next, the artists will pour Ultracal 30 cement into the mold, which will take a full day to cure.

24 HOURS LATER

I return to the studio the next day for the unveiling of the finished cast. I'm excited and anxious. What will it look like?

As we peel away the alginate, my features start to emerge. The last piece reveals my closed eyes. Ah, so that’s what I look like when I’m asleep!

I’m relieved to note that I look like neither a gargoyle nor a beauty, but just a normal person. The cast is incredibly realistic, right down to the texture of my skin and the creases on my eyelids. Despite trying to stay neutral, I notice that my cast has a tiny, enigmatic smile. Just like Mona Lisa, I think to myself.

I have a momentary flash of cognitive dissonance as I see myself the way others see me, instead of the familiar reversed reflection in the mirror. There is something unsettling about seeing my own disembodied head, turned to stone, set on a table.

But I'm excited to think about the costume possibilities for Halloween and cosplay. Now I have a bust to work with for custom prosthetic makeup.

And I'm already thinking about what else I can do with my stone lifecast. Maybe I'll put a red wig and dark glasses on it, and set it up in front of my computer at work. Then I can go enjoy a delicious frosty beverage at the beach.